Samson

by Eric Wilson

  Dust clouds the air, and I slow my steps during the descent into the quarry. Caleb appears at my side, his breathing heavy, and we crouch behind a rock to assess the situation. Here, Hebrew men do our enemy’s work, carving slabs from the earth, breaking them into limestone blocks, loading them onto horse-drawn carts. In a more leisurely fashion Philistine masons use chisels to shape the ashlar foundation stones that will bolster their vast temples and palaces.

  This is all wrong. Our people here are slaves. I’m reminded of our tribes that once languished in ancient Egypt, trying to meet Pharaoh’s quotas while suffering under his lash.

  Was our exodus for nothing?

  Through the dust I see what all the shouts are about. There looms the Egyptian fighter, his head smooth except for one tufted tail in the back. He flashes a crooked smile for any who oppose him. Philistine nobles and soldiers cheer him on one side, and rag-draped Hebrews huddle on the other. One of my countrymen is urged forward, the next victim for the pit fight.

  The giant swings.

  Just like that the man lands facedown.

  “Pathetic!” the champion bellows. “I am Bolcom, and I’ve fought men from every nation. These Hebrews and their puny God are no match for me. They’re like children. Send two at a time, and maybe they’ll have a chance.”

  “Two against one,” the Philistines taunt. “Two against one.”

  Several men drag the defeated fighter away while our enemy’s priest moves about in his temple robes and gathers bets. “Many returns,” he says, his shrewd gaze picking out susceptible onlookers. He wishes to capitalize on these cruelties. “Dagon guarantees many returns. Five to one. Come on, come on, our gods will be pleased. Five to one at least.”

  Caleb elbows me. “We shouldn’t be here. Let’s go.”

  “I just want a closer look. She could be down there, you know.”

  “Something’s not right about this. I’m serious, Samson. Why would they bring this monster here if not to draw you out?”

  “What harm can come from looking?”

  “Last time you said that, you were chased out of town with a robe full of chickens.”

  “Well, I’m not playing chicken today.”

  The next fight has already started. Bolcom is toying with his opponent, a small fellow named Wadesh. Wadesh is one of those who trains at Mahaneh-dan, and I wonder if he’ll fare any better than the last man. He takes a swing at the Egyptian, misses, but follows it with a kick that lands. Bolcom pretends to limp in pain but tires of the game. He plows his fist into Wadesh’s face, then lifts both arms and screams in triumph before the smaller man hits the ground.

  In all the commotion I see movement. The priest takes advantage of the crowd’s fervor and increases the wagers while a hooded figure stays by his side. Among the masons and nobles, an older man in a servant’s tunic jostles and mingles, then stops to address a petite woman whose face is turned away from the violence.

  I can’t see her, not fully.

  Could it be . . . ?

  A collective gasp pulls my eyes back to the fight, where Wadesh staggers to his feet in a show of defiance. He’s bloodied, disoriented. Rolling his shoulders, he approaches the big man once more.

  CHAPTER 8

  STRONGMAN

  THE QUARRY CROWD gasped as Wadesh faced Bolcom a second time. The fool refused to give up. Prince Rallah knew from his spies that Wadesh was one of those who trained at the tribal camp, and that experience gave him ill-founded courage as he aimed another blow at Bolcom.

  Rallah pulled his hood low, hiding his identity as he kept pace with the priest. Jodel was gathering bets, but Rallah was more concerned about springing the trap.

  This quarry was the place; the giant was the bait . . .

  But still no sign of Samson. For Dagon’s sake, where was he?

  Rallah would give it till sundown. If this scheme didn’t work, he’d get another earful from his father about his arrogance and his assumptions. King Balek was more than willing to point out his son’s faults while ignoring his own. The king was a pampered ruler, no longer in touch with his people.

  Another roar from the crowd as the Egyptian took a swing.

  This time Wadesh collapsed and lay motionless.

  “You people are weak,” Bolcom taunted the Israelites, “and you serve an even weaker God. Come back to Egypt, where you belong, and I’ll show you the power of our deities.”

  “No!”

  This voice was new, deep and rumbling, and it jolted Rallah upright.

  “No, our God is not weak,” said a Hebrew with long hair gathered in cords down his back. He stormed down the quarry path, gathered Wadesh in his arms, and moved him aside. He pivoted back toward Bolcom, who stood ready for the challenge. “And neither are His people.”

  The throng buzzed with the name of Samson, and Rallah grinned, realizing his trap had worked. So this was the rumored strongman. The man was well built. He had deep-set eyes, an angled jaw, and dark locks that swept his broad shoulders and chest. Road dust coated his forearms and calves, and his tunic was crudely fashioned. He was a commoner, after all. While there was little doubt of his strength, he was no match for an Egyptian giant with military experience and battle-tested skills.

  Jodel smelled opportunity. “Here he is at last.” The priest waved a hand in the challenger’s direction. “I give you the Hebrew champion. Now we shall see whose God is the strongest, and for the victor, a bag of silver.”

  “One bag, is that all?” Samson smirked. “You have such little faith in your god.”

  “Very well.” The priest peered into the pockets of his robe and made some calculations. He paused, making sure he had the attention of all present. “Two bags of silver then. Two bags.”

  A gasp and a burst of applause.

  For Rallah, it was a handsome sum, but for these slaves, it was more than they could make in a lifetime. They’d tell their grandchildren of the day they laid eyes on such a prize.

  Before the contest could get started, a young man intervened. “You can’t do this, Samson. I can’t let you. Father will be furious.” He was clearly a brother to the Hebrew champion, with lighter, shorter hair and a smoother face. Nonetheless his frame was sturdy, his limbs conditioned by manual labor. “Samson?” he said, tugging at his brother’s tunic. “Are you even listening?”

  Samson, in fact, was not listening.

  Prince Rallah followed Samson’s gaze over brush and stone to a young Philistine woman. She was vaguely familiar to Rallah, certainly attractive. The Hebrew’s infatuation was justified.

  “Ten to one,” Jodel called out. “Our god Dagon promises ten to one. The slaves have their strongman, but he’s unworthy of Dagon and hopeless against Bolcom.”

  The lithe young female lost herself among the nobles, and Samson scanned frantically for her. He was smitten; that was obvious. For him, the fight was an afterthought.

  Not for Bolcom.

  In a blur of movement his bronzed arm drove forward with the force of a battering ram, catching Samson cold and snapping his head back in a flurry of hair. Samson collapsed in a heap on the dirt, and his younger brother dropped to his side, close enough for Rallah to overhear.

  “Are you all right? Look at me, Brother. Please.”

  “Don’t . . . don’t let her get away, Caleb.” Samson’s eyelids fluttered. “Find out who she is.” He sat up, dusted off his robes, then rolled his neck and rose to his feet.

  It was a wonder that any man could remain conscious after such a blow. Thrilled, the Philistines and Hebrews jeered at each other across the divide. More wagers were placed as they awaited the clash of champions.

  Not far from where Rallah stood, the young beauty poked her head out to watch. She had wide, innocent eyes over sensuous lips. Yes, he remembered her now. He’d seen her assisting Jodel in his temple duties.

  Again, Samson turned, and this time he and the girl locked eyes.

  It was all the opportunity Bolcom needed, and he threw two rapid b
lows, muscling through each one with tree-trunk legs and the twist of his torso. The man was a beast, and Rallah marveled at his power. Each blow landed with a heart-stopping thud, and Samson was thrown down again.

  “Where’s your champion now?” Jodel asked the Hebrews. “Dagon has proved his power.”

  “And I have proved mine,” Bolcom growled.

  Prince Rallah gazed from beneath his hood at the fallen man, still as a slab on the ground. Rallah had set this trap to placate his father, nothing more. As far as he was concerned, the stories and prophecies about this Hebrew were a waste of time. Even so, he was disappointed. He had wanted an entertaining fight, at least.

  Samson’s fingers twitched.

  Just reflexes, Rallah thought. The way a snake writhes after being chopped in two.

  Then the twitches turned to trembles, and the hands began to shake. The energy quivered up his arms into his chest, and he breathed a prayer. “Lord, give me strength.” He climbed back to his feet, lowered his chin, and this time strode forward with his vision fixed solely on the giant.

  He was up? He had survived? A stunned silence fell over the throng.

  “Dumb as an ox,” Bolcom said, “but at least you can take a punch.”

  “My name is Samson, and I serve the living God.”

  Bolcom cocked his arm back and launched another blow.

  This time Samson grabbed his opponent’s fist in midswing and held it. He stared into Bolcom’s face and said, “You’ve proven nothing.” He delivered a punch that cracked Bolcom’s head sideways on its stout neck, then lifted the huge fighter so that both his legs were in the air and slammed him onto a broken quarry slab. Before the Egyptian could catch a breath, Samson wrenched a boulder from the earth in a shower of pebbles and dirt and held it high so that it blocked the very sun from Bolcom’s face.

  “Where are your gods now?” Samson goaded. “Tell me, can you see your sun god, Ra?”

  The prince pulled his hood lower. In all his years in his father’s courts or on the fields of battle, he had never seen such strength. His fear was matched only by his admiration.

  Do it, Rallah thought. End this for us with the crunch and crackle of bone.

  Jodel had other concerns. “Yield, Hebrew. Please. Take the silver; it’s yours.”

  Samson considered the man at his feet, then heaved the boulder aside. This elicited a burst of applause from the onlookers, and their cheers grew even louder when Caleb raised the bags of silver that were Samson’s prize and handed them to the champion. As the two headed up the quarry path, Samson mussed Caleb’s hair, threw an arm over his shoulder, and tossed him one of the bags.

  Another cheer of approval. Having scarcely known his own brothers, Prince Rallah envied the two Hebrews and their camaraderie. They wore coarse clothing and had matted hair, they walked long miles over hard earth, and yet they looked happy. Content. Even free. How was it that slaves could go to mud-plastered huts and hardscrabble lives with laughter in their throats when the prince himself, in his palatial dwellings, had not genuinely laughed in months?

  Rallah spat on the dirt. Keeping his head down, he slipped away to find his tethered mount.

  His father was right, much as he hated to admit it. Samson was more than a sideshow. He was dangerous. A true threat to their rule along the coastal plains. Nobody present would forget what they had just witnessed, and the stories of today would feed the rebellions of tomorrow.

  But this story was not over, not yet. Rallah would make certain of that.

  Time for him to introduce a new character.

  Create deeper conflict.

  Alter the outcome.

  Purple shadows stretched over the landscape as he lashed the flanks of his horse and raced toward nearby Gath. Smaller than Gaza, it was one of the five capital cities and had troops barracked within its walls. He would rally Ashdod and some of the men to his aid, and if they hurried, they could catch Jodel and his entourage on the road back to Gaza’s temple.

  For the first trap, the prince had counted on Samson’s aggression. For the next, he would count on something even more primal.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE COST

  Village of Zorah

  ZEALPHONIS STOOD IN the hut’s doorway and watched the setting sun paint the sky in scarlet and indigo. The family olive tree shivered in the evening’s cool breeze. The meal was on the hearth, the rug spread out on the floor, and she waited only for her sons to arrive.

  Soon and safe, that was always her prayer. Soon and safe.

  “They better be here before nightfall.”

  “They will be, Manoah.”

  “You’re sure they went west?”

  Nodding, she glanced back at him in the hut’s living area. “I made them promise not to go to the camp today. It’s no place for Caleb.”

  “You’re their mother. It’s natural that you worry about broken noses and bruised shins.” He lit an offshoot in the fire, touched it to the oil lamp, and gave illumination to bowls of warm lentil soup. “You feed and nourish them as you always have. You’re all that a mother should be.”

  She gathered the folds of her cloak about her. “Thank you, dear.”

  “But I have other worries,” her husband said. “I see the way Samson eyes the village girls. I watch his chest puff out as he passes them in the fields. His focus should be on our laws, our customs and commandments.”

  “He’s a good man. He’s young, that’s all.”

  “Young, you say. Caleb is young. Samson should have a wife and children. He should have his own roof to mend and his own field to plow.”

  “Mercy, Manoah. Is that all that we hope for him?”

  “It’s what I’d hope for any self-respecting Hebrew male. These days everyone does what is right in his own eyes, but the Lord doesn’t want him sitting idly about, ogling the passersby.”

  Zealphonis glided across the packed dirt floor. “You once ogled a passerby.”

  “I . . . Well, yes, I noticed you, and I took you on as my wife.” He met her gaze. “We worked our plot, giving half to the Philistines, of course, and we had our sons.”

  “I was barren until the Lord heard our cry.”

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  She stepped back. “You know, don’t you, that God’s promise had nothing to do with raising Samson to be a farmer like his father? He’s called for a purpose, and we don’t yet know how that’ll be fulfilled. We can’t force him into a mold of our own making. I may have birthed him and swaddled him in the cold of the night, but he is not our own. Not really. God is his father first and foremost.”

  “And He entrusted him to us. You’ve nourished him, and I’m trying to guide him.”

  “He’s not a donkey at the plow.”

  “Exactly, Zealphonis; he’s my son.”

  “God is his father,” she said again softly.

  Manoah huffed and stepped outside. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Samson. Caleb. Come in, the meal is ready. Don’t make your mother wait.”

  Ten minutes later they were kneading dough for unleavened bread when Caleb burst through the doorway. He bent to catch his breath. His eyes sparkled with excitement in the oil lamp’s flicker.

  “You made it,” Manoah said. “Where is your brother?”

  “You should’ve . . . seen it. Samson was . . . amazing.”

  “Take a moment and calm yourself.” Zealphonis poured cleansing water from the clay urn over Caleb’s hands. “Now sit at the rug. The food is getting cold.”

  Caleb pulled a bag into view, and the clinking of coins was unmistakable.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “These . . . Samson won them. This and one other full bag of silver.”

  Her confusion turned to worry. “He didn’t steal them, did he? Please tell me he hasn’t stirred up trouble with the Philistines again. You know, he should’ve told me where he got those chickens.”

  “He won them,” Caleb exclaimed.

  “
Won them? From what I heard, he took them from some old men.”

  “Not the chickens, Mother. These coins. He won them in a fight.”

  Her heart dropped. “A fight?”

  “It’s all right,” Caleb assured her. “He’s not hurt, not badly.”

  She groaned.

  “You should’ve seen it. It was in the quarry, the one outside of Timnah, and there were people taking bets. This huge Egyptian, he was taunting our tribesmen, knocking them down one after the other. He had fists like rocks, and—”

  “That’s enough,” Manoah said.

  “Look what Samson has done, Father.” The coins jangled.

  “I heard, Caleb. You will take these to the council.”

  “But Samson won these for our family.”

  “Should we feast while the rest of our people starve? Since when does this household ignore the needs of others and consider our welfare more highly than that of our neighbors? No, this is not our way. This is not how I’ve raised the two of you. Where is that brother of yours? Spending his winnings already? He grows callous and arrogant.”

  “He does what he sees as right.”

  Manoah’s tone turned bitter. “Samson sees only what is right in front of him.”

  Zealphonis noted her son’s confusion and her husband’s frustration. She spent her days tending to her family’s material needs and her nights praying for their deeper concerns. These men of hers, they often didn’t know themselves what drove them. They butted heads like rams, reacting to emotions they couldn’t even acknowledge.

  “You worry about the prophecies,” Caleb said. “I’m well aware of it, and so is Samson. Who knows, though. God’s ways are not always our ways. Maybe my brother’s doing what he’s supposed to. He’s doing his best.”

  “We’re all doing our best, Son. Now eat your mother’s food.”

  Caleb studied the coin bag. Sighing, he set it down.

  They sat cross-legged around the rug, blessed the evening meal, and dipped spoons into the soup. Zealphonis passed around the bread from the clay oven, and tensions faded with warm food in their bellies. Philistines still gathered their tribute, but the Lord provided for His own.